Page 49 of House of the Iron Reaper

I am cut off by a meaty slam to my back as Ronan tries to help clear my lungs. Although he, too, howls with laughter.

“If this is what fire dragons feel,” I choke out. “I understand why Lysandra is so peevish.”

Deimos fetches me a flask of water and a cloth to clean his face, as Ronan pulls the whiskey away from me. I cautiously sip the water, throat and lungs still burning, too guilty to even meet Deimos’s eye.

“A thousand apologies,” I say as he takes his seat again, voice still hoarse, and follow it up with another sound like a cat with a furball.

“I should have expected it.” Deimos waves me off. “I was much the same, so do not fret.”

“I shall never drink whiskey again,” I vow, eliciting another fit of giggles from Ronan.

Deimos rolls his eyes and says, “Now I have been somewhat sobered up-”

“Speak for yourself,” Ronan interrupts, followed by a long swig.

“Can I ask why you decided to visit?” Deimos presses on, ignoring him. “Not that I mind, of course. But is there something you need help with?”

“Um…” I twist my fingers together, prickling with unease.

Ronan quietens, and I become overly aware I have not said anything for a long moment.

“Yes, in fact,” I say with a small nod, trying to force more confidence in my voice than I feel. “I needed a reason to leave work tomorrow for a few hours, for the painting at noon. So, with the… charade Novalie and I have, she plans to, um… t-take a turn about town.”

Ronan claps me on the back so hard, it nearly sends off another coughing fit.

“Congratulations!” he says, beaming. “Your courtship is official. How wonderful. Let us toast!”

Ronan holds his glass up before draining the last of the whiskey in one draw. He slams the glass down with a satisfied noise. Deimos leans forward, looking at me seriously.

“You are nervous?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Well, yes, but…” I squeeze my eyes closed, cheeks burning. “I do not know what to wear.”

Deimos blinks. Ronan leans forward slowly, and I can feel him squinting at my profile.

“This is…” I exhale, lowering my eyes to the table. “I have never been courted before. I do not know the intricacies. But you said you had someone, a siren. Will you help me?”

Deimos reaches across the table to pat the back of my clenched fists.

“I would be delighted, Deyanara,” he says.

When I look up, I realise I was mistaken about Deimos’s eyes. They are not chips of ice, but pools of oasis water. I smile back at him.

“My thanks, Sh-” I swallow and correct myself, although it makes my hands shake to do so. “Deimos.”

“And I also!” Ronan pipes up. “Although werewolf courtships might be a little more… direct than you’ll find here.”

“Do not overwhelm her,” Deimos says with a wave of his hand, before turning to me with a glint in his eye. “Now, let us get started.”

Ronan volunteers to make us all a pot of strong mint tea, so we leave him in the kitchen and settle into Deimos’s bedchambers instead. His room feels smaller than it is, any space taken by two wide wardrobes, a bed laden with handmade cushions, and a vanity table squeezed into one corner, buried under creams, face paint, and jewellery boxes.

Deimos ushers me into the stool before the vanity. I sit awkwardly, feeling too large for the small seat. Deimos stands behind me, hands on my shoulders. In the looking glass, I see his eyes twinkling.

“Do not look so fearful,” he says with a smile.

“I am afraid this is how I always look,” I reply.

Deimos chuckles softly before asking, “May I touch your hair?”